


A Stitch in Time

by opalmatrix



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Meetings, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Hugh Chase thinks that both his vengeful mission to Scotland and his life are about to come to a bloody end, but in fact, the story is just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written under the nostalgic influence of Sally Watson's YA historical romances and the Scottish portions of Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles, and probably originally inspired by [**cicer**](http://cicer.livejournal.com/)'s [Taboo](http://cicer.livejournal.com/165281.html) and [**emungere**](http://emungere.livejournal.com/)'s [Bless the Beasts and Children](http://emungere.livejournal.com/206537.html), in both of which a very young Gojyo ends up in a better place ... which got me wondering about what influences a developing child's personality, and when. Beta (multiple rounds of beta ... ) and some very good suggestions by [** smillaraaq **](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smillaraaq/pseuds/Smillaraaq/).

* * *

Hugh staggered and collided with another tree. That made three of them he'd hit this hour alone. He leaned against it, resting. If he sat down, he'd never get up again.

He was not certain why he was so sure of the passage of time. He was even less certain why he was bothering to follow the rocky little track through the rough hill country above Perth. Surely he was far enough off that he could just lay down and die peacefully. Blood was now only seeping rather than dripping through the rough bandage that had been his extra shirt, but he had no illusions about the seriousness of the wound it covered.

And it wasn't as though he had any reason for living, now.

He pushed himself away from the rough bark and lurched a few steps farther. The track was going downhill, now, and for a moment, he could see the little glen below him in the summer twilight. There was a small building there - a chapel, it looked to be, rather than a house - with light gleaming warmly from a window. The hills above it were soft and dark green, the evening air was sweet and rain-washed, and he could see Venus glimmering in the west as the clouds started to break apart. The half-full moon was just rising. For a moment, he swayed on his feet, entranced by the beauty of the scene, and then he stumbled and fell headlong downhill.

_Well, this is the end of me, I suppose. How foolish. I'm sorry, Kate._

His eyes opened again, to his surprise. Someone was standing over him. Hugh smiled as he recognized the exact aspect of the man's cheekbones, the complex yet familiar mark on the brow, the outrageously long eyelashes, the cropped dark hair, and the long, flexible mouth. Hugh's lips and tongue struggled to speak his friend's name, but no sound came out. Recognition and dismay filled the other's face, but as he knelt beside Hugh, that face was suddenly a stranger's. This was no man, but a gangly lad a couple of years younger than Hugh, dressed in homespun linen and coarse tartan woolen. His hair was a long tangle down his back, elflocks of it falling into his face and half-hiding the ugly roughness of a burn scar high on one cheek. And as Hugh stared at this stranger, he realized that there was only consternation on the boy's face.

"Who are you?" asked Hugh, but there was no strength to his voice, and he was not sure the other had heard him at all. The boy reached out to cradle Hugh in his arms. _He'll never be able to lift me,_ Hugh thought, but those wiry arms tightened, and the world swayed and moved past Hugh's dazed eyes. For a moment, he saw the glen and the chapel, and the light of the moon seemed to lay a path from the boy's firmly planted bare feet to the lighted doorway below. Then the pain came clawing up again from Hugh's belly, and darkness claimed him once more.

Next time his eyes opened, it was to candle- and firelight washing over a smoke-grimed plaster ceiling held by dark wooden beams. There was a smell of soap, spirits of wine, and beeswax, and a fire was crackling nearby. He was lying on something hard, and he was naked under a coarse linen sheet. It seemed unlikely that he was still alive, and yet this seemed awfully domestic for Hell.

Someone chuckled softly. "I can't claim it's Heaven, laddie, but it's certainly not Hell." Hugh started and then groaned: he hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud. A firm hand grasped one wrist, feeling for his pulse. Hugh turned his head and saw a tall man with a smooth, ageless face, dressed as a priest or perhaps even a monk - except for his hair, which was long and fair and tied behind his neck. The narrow, handsome eyes closed for a moment as the fellow counted Hugh's heartbeats, and when they opened again, the man's face had become serious.

Footsteps sounded behind the priest - if that was what he was. Hugh tilted his head farther and saw that the boy who had rescued him had come into the room. The light showed that his tangled hair was actually a rich, intense fox-red, and his eyes an extraordinary cornflower blue. He was carrying a stack of folded cloths and, strangely, a coil of strong rope over his shoulder. A shaggy shepherd dog, patched white and smoky silver and deep blue-grey, followed closely on his heels. The fair-haired man spoke to him, but the words were not English. _Gaelic_, thought Hugh, and watched as the boy put the cloths down atop a small table. Hugh realized that he himself must be on another table, a large trestle, and wondered hazily why. The boy was staring at his face with awe and confusion, and he spoke to the man haltingly. The man patted his shoulder and then turned back to Hugh.

"I am Father Calum. Might I ask your name?"

"Hugh Chase," Hugh answered, but his eyes were on the red-haired boy. The lad jabbed a thumb at his own chest, still staring at Hugh, and said "Roslin." His voice was hoarse and uncertainly deep; it must have broken fairly recently. Father Calum turned to him, frowning, and scolded him gently in Gaelic. The lad scowled and turned away, stalking across the room to poke at the fire. Father Calum sighed.

"His name is Govan. 'Roslin' means 'Little Red,' which is what the wild lads in Dundee used to call him when he ran at their heels, desperate for any crumbs of friendship they would give him. But it was never said with love, and he's grown well out of the first part of it these two years past." He felt Hugh's forehead for a moment, and shook his head. "Master Chase, Govan thinks he once knew you, although he can't recall when, or even why he thinks so."

Hugh closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. "I ... thought I knew him as well, when I first saw him. But that's not possible. And I don't really remember his face at all ... am I dying, Father?"

"You will be, if you are left to yourself. But any halfway skillful surgeon would have a chance of setting you right. And I am such a man. It will be very painful, and you still might die - though you're a strong lad for all your slightness. But are you willing that I try to put you back together? From your first words there, I take it you meant to die."

Hugh opened his eyes slowly. "I ... did, but now ... ."

"But now -?" The older man's eyes held Hugh's, and his tone was gentle. "Perhaps it would ease your heart to speak of it? Whether or not you wish this to be a confession proper is between you and God."

Hugh licked his dry lips. "I think that I would like to tell you. Even though I know we may not be of the same church."

"Shall I send Govan out?" The boy turned away from the fire at the sound of his name. What Hugh could see of his face looked troubled.

"Can he ... understand what I say?"

"No more than a word or two."

"I think ... I'd rather have him stay, then."

Father Calum spoke to Govan, who drew up a little three-legged stool and sat at Hugh's other side, his chin almost on Hugh's shoulder. This close, he looked wild and disheveled and very, very worried. The dog, which had settled itself on a bed of sacks near the hearth, rose to follow him, but he sent it back with a word. Hugh closed his eyes again.

"I had a twin sister, and after our father died and our mother married again, we were left in the care of our uncle Rowland, who in truth cared for neither of us. Katherine was a brilliant scholar, and thought she might enter a convent so that she could continue her studies ... three months ago, Lord William Stratton came to visit our uncle. He is a distant cousin of some sort, from this region. He is ... was ... also a widower twice over, and no girl has ever been safe with him. They say he beat both his wives, and may have even killed the one - the other died in childbed. When he left suddenly for his home of Pitcullen, taking Katherine with him, my uncle refused to pursue the matter, saying he would no doubt marry 'the wench' when she proved herself in the matter of children, and this would save our uncle the cost of a dowry ... ."

"You loved your sister. You were close."

"I ... had never thought of how close until this happened."

"How did you come to be here, now, three months after?"

"My uncle would not bestir himself, but others did, and questions were asked. But because Pitcullen is north of the border, in the end none would pursue him."

"Not so, it seems: one did."

"Even so. I sold my horse, my books, what was left of Katherine's jewelry from our mother, which Kate had hidden, and bought passage on a small ship. I found the house ... ."

"Do you need some water? I don't dare give you much at the moment."

"I'll ... I'll do. Father ... I crept in like a thief. I killed every living soul I came across. I ... still cannot believe I was able to do so. I slew _him_, in his bed, and the girl he had with him. He had already left off ... sleeping with Kate - with reason. She was locked in a tiny chamber at the top of the house. Father, she was with child. His child. I told her to come with me anyway. She refused. She ... oh, God!"

As Hugh fell silent, he felt warm fingers grip his shoulder. He turned his head and looked. Govan was staring at him with mute sympathy, his eyes uncomprehending but soft with concern. Hugh closed his eyes, unable to imagine what this rough young creature would make of the tale he was missing. Hugh wet his lips as best he could with a tongue that felt like dust.

"She - she took my dagger and killed herself."

Father Calum was silent a moment. "Master Chase ... did you try to join her?"

"Nn...no. Not then. Not truly. I had fallen to my knees beside her, and then ... Lord William's eldest son Andrew found us there. He had arrived home late, and discovered the bodies of the servants. My earlier zeal for butchery failed me, and he gave me this wound before I killed him. I don't know ... why I didn't do away with myself, or why I bothered to flee."

"Did your sister speak to you, poor creature, before she met her death?"

Things wouldn't come into focus. It was hard to keep his eyes open, to think. "She said ... she said 'You go, Hugh. You still have your life. Mine is over.'"

"You were carrying out her wishes, then." Father Calum laid his hand on Hugh's other shoulder. "When you murdered those folk, their lives were over as well, and unlike you, they had no chance to unburden their souls, or do penance. But lad, no penance that I could assign you would be harsher than what I am about to do to save your life. Are you contrite? If you survive, will you strive to truly live, as you sister could not?"

There was something wrong with that, but Hugh could not remember what. It was getting so hard to think. "Father ... she killed herself. She's ... she's going to Hell, isn't she? I don't want to go to Heaven if she's ... ."

"You imagine that the Archfiend would allow you children to be together in the Inferno? Foolish lad."

Hugh felt tears brimming. He was too weak to stop them. "I have no hope, then."

Father Calum squeezed his shoulder very gently. "Her own hand guided the dagger, but who had inclined her to do so? She was as much a victim as those you killed."

Hugh blinked, trying to make the man's face come clear. "That's not ... are you truly a priest? Or even a Christian?"

The other man chuckled softly. "Well, you might have asked, this hour past, why I am out here in this old chapel, with no congregation but this poor child beside you, and those few shepherds and hunters who come to me for physick. Now you know at least one bit of it. But neither the Pope in Rome nor the Archbishop of Canterbury has yet given the order for my burning at the stake, so perhaps Our Lord still has some purpose for me here - or perhaps the Devil is shielding me, and those fine gentlemen have not yet noticed. You will have to decide for yourself. Come now - I absolve your poor sister of her final sin. Will you speak your contrition, so I may do the same for you? That is, if you can accept it from me."

Of a sudden, Hugh felt a stillness somewhere within him, as though his heart was at ease for the first time in a hundred days. "I am ... I am sincerely penitent. If I live, I will do my best to live for both of us."

"Then I absolve you. And now, I had best get to work, or all this pain of the heart and spirit will be for nought. We must bind you, I am afraid, for you must remain still while I am at this. 'T would be best if you fainted, but I cannot depend on that."

He spoke to Govan, who released Hugh's shoulder and fetched the rope and the cloths. Together, they tied Hugh firmly to the table, using the cloth to protect his flesh from the rope. Govan fetched a small pot from the fire, and Father Calum used a pair of tongs to remove from its steaming depths a number of wickedly gleaming curved needles, which he laid out carefully on the smaller table.

"Close your eyes, lad."

Hugh did as ordered, although he doubted it would matter.

He was right.

He did not know how many times he rose shrieking out of the twisted red-black darkness. Memories arose and were shredded into nothingness by the pain: their mother leaving them alone at Uncle Rowland's; his first pony; Kate reading under the apple tree behind their uncle's house; the blood-spattered plaster of the manor house at Pitcullen and the faces of those dying at his bloody hand; Kate driving the dagger home into her own flesh. Sometimes he saw Father Calum's grave face, no longer so serene, or Govan, grey under his tan, peering into his eyes, and heard the dog whining as it sensed its master's concern, and knew, for an instant, that he was seeing the truth. For those moments, he was lucid. And then he knew that if this kept on - if he could not get some proper rest - he would die.

It might have been a day or a week later - he had no way of knowing - but suddenly everything went slack and peaceful. His throat was no longer raw with screaming. He couldn't open his eyes, but that was quite alright. He lay there in the dimness, content, for some little while, but gradually the faint, dull pain in his belly began to sharpen. At the same time, he became aware of light striking through his closed eyelids. He was lying on what must be a bed, mostly very soft but a bit lumpy. The bed linens were not fresh, but they were of some astonishingly fine, smooth cloth. There was no smell of wax or oil burning, and only the faintest smell of aromatic smoke, old and distant, along with a faint tang that might be stale ale. Nearby, there was a soft rustling sound, like the page of a book being turned. He opened his eyes.

The ceiling above his head was a flat, slightly gleaming expanse of what seemed to be white-painted plaster, yellowed and cracked, evenly gridded with slender beams that seemed inadequate to their task. The light was steady and brighter than that of any lamp he had known. It was coming from his left. He turned his head slowly to look.

The lamp was like nothing he had ever seen - he only knew it was lamp because it was casting a bright light that made him blink. It was standing atop a meaninglessly strange box with a dark, glossy panel in its front, in turn atop a wooden chest of some sort. Someone was sitting in a chair, reading. The light picked out an angular, male form: a man somewhere near his own age, with long red hair - not the bright auburn of Govan's hair, but a crimson shade that was surely nothing natural. Yet the long lashes, the shape of the cheekbones, the chiseled nose, the wide mouth, were all familiar - this was Govan to the life, somehow magically three or four years older. His cheek was even scarred in the same spot, but instead of the angry red distorted mark of a burn, this man had two scars that looked like sword cuts. He was dressed strangely as well: his wiry arms were bare to the shoulder, so Hugh could clearly see the muscles moving under his tanned skin as his shifted slightly in the wooden chair, turning the page of the booklet he was reading. Even that was odd: the paper was thin and flexible, the pages as large as a church Bible and brilliantly colored.

Hugh had not made a sound, but the man must have felt his gaze, for he looked up. And Hugh saw that his irises were ruby red, as red as the Roman soldiers' cloaks in the stained glass windows at St. Mark's.

Hugh gasped, and the man rose to his feet, dropping his booklet on the floor, his face creasing with concern. He spoke. Hugh could not understand a word, nor could he guess what the language was, but the deep voice was gentle. He reached out to feel Hugh's forehead, carefully and a little awkwardly, as though he were not used to doing such a thing. The palm of his hand was hard - the hand of a man who'd had to work for his bread. He spoke again, and somehow, Hugh's mind seemed to stir and wake, and he began to understand the words: " ... doc said if you woke from the pain, I should give ya this medicine he left. You sit tight - I'll get it."

_Don't go,_ Hugh wanted to say, but even though his throat didn't hurt, it was parched and dry, and he had no voice. The man turned and left the room, abandoning Hugh with nothing to do but continue to catalog his unfamiliar surroundings. The room had two windows, made of larger and seemingly thinner panes of glass than he'd ever seen. Night showed outside them, and a couple of the panes were cracked. The walls were dingy white-painted plaster, cracked here and there as well, with no pictures or tapestries, and the frame of the bed seemed to be iron. There was a pallet of some kind on the floor near the door, a thin mattress carelessly dressed with a couple of blankets and a threadbare pillow.

_How strange. Did Calum arrange for my nursing elsewhere? Christ's bones, but I'm thirsty._

The man with the crimson hair returned, carrying a vessel of clear glass as tall as an ale tankard, filled with a cloudy, watery liquid. He dropped gracefully to his knees beside the bed and gingerly worked his free arm under Hugh's shoulders. The arm was strong and steady, and the man slowly and carefully raised Hugh far enough to sip the drink. It smelled strongly of anise and tasted of bitterness, so much so that he had trouble getting it down, despite his thirst.

"Ah, I know - tastes like crap, don't it? But c'mon, it'll let you get back t' sleep. Doc said you need to stay put and rest."

The voice was as soothing and comfortable as a warm woolen bedgown in the dead of winter. Hugh finished the potion, and the other lowered him carefully back to the pillows. Hugh coughed a little, which felt like hell in his belly, and licked his dry lips. "Who ... ?"

The fellow smiled. "Told you before, but I don't figure it's gonna stick until you're off the drugs. Gojyo. Sha Gojyo. I'll getcha some more water t' help take that nasty taste outta your mouth. "

The name meant nothing to Hugh. It did not sound like a name from any nation he knew. Gojyo came back with the glass drinking vessel filled with plain, cold water and helped Hugh get it down. Then he moved the bright lamp from its perch to somewhere farther away from the bed so that its naked light no longer glared so harshly on Hugh's face. "I'll get out of your hair, let you get some sleep, OK?"

"Nnnn ... don't go," Hugh managed to say. He felt his face grow hot.

Gojyo turned back, surprised. Then he smiled slowly and sweetly. "Hey, OK. I got nothin' else t' do, anyway." He dropped back into the chair and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, his long-fingered hands dangling between his knees. "You sound like talkin' hurts. I know what - my big brother used t' tell me stories when I couldn't sleep. Should I tell you one of 'em?"

_Anything to keep him talking._ "Yes," Hugh whispered.

"Lemme see ... nothin' too spooky. OK. Once there was this guy, down in Yangzhou. His name was Big Yang, and he was a boatman. He was a really nice guy, always went outta his way to help people, and gave money to the beggars and the temple whenever he had any extra at all. So one day, this old lady that he ferried across for free gave him this picture on a scroll. It was a really gorgeous picture of a beautiful girl sewing a pair of slippers - she was embroidering tigers on 'em. It was so pretty, Big Yang hung it over his bed so he could look at it every night before he went t' sleep.

"It was a magic picture - bet you guessed that, right? After a few nights, that girl came right out of that picture - for real. And they had a real nice time t'gether in his bed, Big Yang and the pretty girl from the picture. And she must've liked it, 'cause after that, she came out every night. After a couple of years, they even had a kid - a nice healthy boy ... ."

Hugh's eyelids were heavy, heavy. The hot pain in his belly faded to ashes. Gojyo's soft, deep, kind voice rambled on, taking him farther and farther away from anything that mattered, no matter that the names in the tale were wildly foreign and he'd never heard of any of the places. As his last thoughts slipped away, he felt rather than saw the other man lean over him. Hugh opened his heavy eyelids for just a second, and the other, smiling gently, pulled the blanket up snugly under his chin, dark hair and blue eyes and smooth flawless skin, save for the holy mark on the brow. A living weight settled beside him, solid and muscular and warm all along his shoulder, hip, and thigh, soothing and familiar, and Hugh smiled as a firm kiss was pressed against his temple.

He woke to daylight filtered through branches and a latticed window, and the body next to him, on the side nearest the wall, was all scrawny knobbly spine and sharp ribs under a threadbare linen shirt. He reached out, blindly, and encountered a tangled head of long hair. His eyes flew open.

Not crimson hair, but rich, foxy red. Govan. And the plastered and heavy-beamed ceiling above his head matched his memory of Father Calum's chapel home, although he was clearly in a different room. The bed beneath him was an ordinary featherbed, dressed in clean but coarse linens, and the walls had little paintings of saints. A worn tapestry covered the wall beyond Govan, showing Adam naming the animals. The windows, open to the morning air, were latticed and mullioned with small diamonds of thick glass.

Govan stirred and muttered in his sleep, stretching his bony legs and turning onto his back. Hugh shifted his own legs and was instantly aware of the fact that he could do so without agony. Cautiously, he eased one hand under the sheet and felt the bandages over his belly. They were dry, and as he probed gingerly, he came to the conclusion that the wound was closed and starting to heal properly.

_How long have I been asleep?_

He shook his bedmate gently by the shoulder. "Govan?"

"Mmmmffff .... ," said the boy, clenching his eyes tighter shut. _Some things are the same in any language._ Hugh shook him a little harder. Govan rubbed his eyes, muttered, and then said, distinctly, "Mo bhròn! " He sat up, and then froze, staring at Hugh. Hugh stared back, abruptly realizing that he had no idea how to make himself understood.

"Father Calum?"

Govan blinked at him, took a deep breath, and nodded vigorously. Then he slithered out of bed (and nearly out of his shirt) by wriggling down to the foot of it and flipping himself over the footboard. There was a small yelp: his dog must have been sleeping at the foot of the bed. Then Govan ran out of the room, his bare feet slapping the worn boards of the floor, and his shirt tails snapping behind him, so quickly did he move, with the dog racing after him. Bemused, Hugh folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. Dark, massive beams. Cracked plaster. No shiny paint. The table beside the bed held nothing but a candlestick with a half-burnt taper in it and a small psalter.

But he thought he could still taste the bitterness of Gojyo's potion in the back of his mouth.

Father Calum came into the room then, trailed by Govan carrying a bundle of what looked to be bandage linen. The priest's eyebrows rose when he saw Hugh, and he smiled. "Well, lad, you're looking much better than you were three days past."

"I've been asleep three days?"

"Nay, you've been asleep ... Govan!"

He was looking at the corner of the room past the foot of the bed. By craning his neck, Hugh could see the corner of a pallet on the floor. Govan was doing his best to pretend he hadn't noticed that Calum was cross. The priest spoke to him sternly, pointing at the table beside the bed, then the pallet, and finally out of the room. Govan deposited the linen, grabbed something from the floor near the foot of the bed, and hurried out. What Hugh could see of his face beyond the tangle of red hair looked flushed.

"He was sleeping in the bed with you, wasn't he? I've told him you were too badly hurt for that, but he kept crawling in with you every chance he got, this past week. He's to go wash and dress, now, while I take a look at you."

"I've been asleep ... a week?"

"I'd not call it sleep, the first few days. You'd faint and wake again screaming, or later on, as you grew weaker, moaning. Govan thought you were better when he was near, and you might have been, but ... after the first three days, I tried to prepare him to accept the worst, you were so weak. Then one night, you grew silent and still, and I thought you had died. But you were still breathing, so I let him stay with you and went to pray. When I came back, you were sleeping, deeply but properly, and he beside you, his face against your shoulder. I should have taken him in hand at that point, and made him sleep in his own bed, but with the both of you looking so peaceful, I'd not the heart ... at least he didn't have Rùnag - that's the dog, she's a good creature - up here as well."

As he spoke, Calum was pulling down the covers and gently cutting away the bandages. Then he stood, staring a moment. "Well, would you look at that, would you?"

His voice was reverent. Hugh squinted down past his own chest as best he could, but it was impossible to see much.

"Do you truly want to see it? 'tis much better but still not a pretty sight."

Hugh nodded. Calum stooped and started to work one arm under his shoulder. He was interrupted by Govan, who said something in a fierce voice from the doorway. Calum sighed and shook his head, then eased his hand out from behind Hugh. "He says I'm doing it badly. And that he is stronger than I am - which is true enough."

Govan, dressed in a fresh but well-worn shirt, slipped past the priest, knelt, and worked his arm carefully behind Hugh's back. The feeling was so familiar that Hugh had a moment of vertigo. He stared into Govan's bony, scarred face for a moment. "You ... ."

Blue eyes, not red. They were unusual in their own way, though: this close, he could see that there was a darker blue ring around the iris, and a ring of golden brown around the pupil. For a moment, the boy held his gaze, then his eyes dropped, and he blushed.

Hugh felt his own face grow hot. He stopped staring and let Govan prop him up a bit so he could look at his own belly. The wound was a lividly red, jagged line, with branches here and there, and all criss-crossed with dark stitching, but it was not raw or bloody. It gave him the strangest feeling, looking at it, and he had to shut his eyes. Govan eased him down again.

"There, now, I shouldn't have let you look. You've gone green."

"No ... I had to look. It's part of me."

"Well, it's truly much better. It looks like it's been healing three weeks, not one."

With Govan's help to lift and shift, Hugh was soon bandaged up again, and tucked in snugly.

"You'll not be getting up anytime soon, mind, and you'll have nought of substance to eat for another week or two: broth, milk, and the like."

It was not an appealing thought, being bed-bound for weeks, but it was certainly better than the alternative. Father Calum seemed to guess his thoughts. "I have a few books, although I'm sure a clever lad like yourself will be through with them all too soon."

Hugh cautiously raised one arm and rubbed his face. Even that gentle motion pulled at the stitches in his gut, but it wasn't too bad. He remembered Gojyo, in his dream, telling him a story. Now he'd never know how it ended. "I wish ... I wish I could talk to Govan, since he's determined to keep me company."

"Well, there's a thought - that should keep you busy enough!"

"What ... ?"

"You can teach him English, and perhaps learn some Gaelic in exchange, when he's not out with the flock. And when you can sit up a bit, you can work with him on his reading. He had a bit of teaching at church, down in Dundee, as a wee lad, but he can scarcely make his way through the Lord's Prayer, even in the Gaelic. Oh, he has it by heart, but he barely recognizes it on the page."

Govan's eyes darted back and forth between them, knowing they were speaking of him, but nothing else. Father Calum smiled and spoke to him. Govan managed to look both dismayed and pleased, which was an excellent change: his whole face lit up.

"Why does he like me so well?"

"Perhaps you remind him of his elder brother, who's gone missing these four years." Calum spoke to Govan in Gaelic, apparently asking him about the notion. Govan's bright expression slipped a bit and he shrugged and said something brief. "'No, not so,' he says."

Hugh watched as Calum reached out and tousled the boy's bright tangle of hair, then pulled him to his feet by one arm. "He's washed his face but there's no comb has touched a single hair of that head," said the priest, and apparently repeated the remark in translation. Govan squirmed and glanced at Hugh, clearly hoping for an intervention. Hugh grimaced sympathetically, but really, the boy's hair was a proper mare's nest.

"I'll send him back with something for you to drink," promised Calum, and guided his reluctant charge out of the room.

 


	2. A Stitch in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Part 2 (this chapter), Hugh recovers in a number of ways.

It was a breathlessly hot day at the end of August. Hugh was lying on a blanket in the shade of the three pine trees between the chapel's tiny kitchen garden and the seldom-used churchyard, with its decades-old graves. Father Calum was perched on a low wooden stool beside him, a traveling desk on his lap, writing letters. His face was shining with sweat, and he had the sleeves of his robe rolled up to the elbow. Hugh crooked one arm over his face, trying to shut out the sun's glare, but that just made his face feel as though it were baking. He'd already read everything available, as Father Calum had predicted, and Govan and Rùnag were out in the hills with the sheep. Hugh felt ill and listless; even if Father Calum hadn't been writing so intently, the idea of a lesson in Latin or Greek was not appealing at all, just now.

Suddenly, he lifted his head. Footsteps sounded faintly on the track that Hugh had walked five weeks ago, and someone called the priest's name. A visitor was bad news, for no one was supposed to know Hugh was here.

"Father?"

The priest looked up from his writing and listened for a moment, but then he smiled. "'tis only Nevin Linsday come to pick up the letters. He's a good man; indeed, he already knows your tale. Nevin!"

A sunburnt young man a couple of years older than Hugh came around the side of the chapel, carrying a flat package wrapped in canvas and well-trussed in cord. He was ginger-haired and freckled beneath his tan, and he wore the breeches of a seaman beneath his patched shirt. Father Calum waved a sheaf of letters at him but then apparently remembered others he had written the previous day and went inside to fetch them. Hugh eyed the other man warily from his prone position, feeling terribly helpless and self-conscious.

"How's the belly, _mo ghille_?"

Hugh blinked. "You speak English?" he asked, and immediately felt the fool.

Nevin hunkered down next to him and grinned, shifting the package onto his knees. "That's the right of it. Have to sell the fish in the port nearest, don't we? Fish have no notion of borders at all."

"I'm sorry - that was rude of me. It's simply that I haven't spoken with anyone here but Father Calum and Govan, and Govan hasn't any English to speak of, although I've been trying to teach him."

"Och, at the end of the day, that one's nought but a wild, half-_sidhe_ lad from the hills, for all he lived in Dundee for 10 years. However would he learn English?"

"Half ... what?"

Nevin flushed under his sunburn. "I should never have said it. Pay no heed. He has a good heart, and the Father trusts him. You should have no worry about him."

"He's been doing his best to keep me company, when he's not out with the sheep."

"Aye, that would be like him. It must be hard on you, to be so laid up and hidden away, but I'm guessing we'll be taking you over the sea once you're well enough to travel."

"Over -? "

Father Calum returned, his hands full of folded letters sealed with wax and thread. Nevin grinned at Hugh again and stood to take the mail from the priest, handing him the package in exchange. "I'll be off then. I hope to see you more lively next time, Hugh. Farewell, Father."

"Godspeed, Nevin, and thank you."

"Aye, I'll have just time to get back home before the weather turns wet. You'd best get under cover - can you not feel the wind shifting?"

When he was out of sight, Hugh rolled his head to stare up at the brassy bright sky. "It doesn't look like rain."

"Well, a sailor needs to know the weather, but I think you're right for now." Father Calum dropped back onto the stool and started unwrapping the package. "Look you, he's brought me three new books. This one is a translation of mythic tales from Greece, this one tales from the _Decameron_, and here is a book of plays."

Hugh reached out automatically and took the volume Father Calum offered him, but he laid it down on his chest after running unseeing eyes over the cover. "He said something about taking me over the sea?"

Father Calum looked at him sharply. "There's no need to worry about that just now. You don't feel well enough to read?"

Hugh closed his eyes. "In truth ... no. I'm sorry."

He felt the priest's hand on his forehead. "You're no more feverish than I am, but the heat is doing you no good, that's for certain. Can you sleep, perhaps?"

"I doubt it. Ahhhh ... I'm a sorry wretch, aren't I? I'm enough work for you without complaining as well."

"It's not as though you haven't got cause for complaint, my son."

"But it's my own fault, and given my sins ... ."

"In truth, that's between you and the Lord, but you've done your penance, Hugh. You are not the lad you were, now. Enough of that. This worrying will not soothe the pain nor make the weather any kinder. Shall I read to you?"

Hugh bit his lip. "Nevin said something else as well."

"What, then?"

"He said Govan was - half-she?"

There was a silence, and then Father Calum started to chuckle. Hugh opened his eyes to look.

"So that's what's worrying you. Ahh ha, no, Hugh, he didn't say what you thought he said. A _sidhe_ is one of the Good Folk, the fairies. I wouldn't say it was impossible - the world is yet full of mysteries, no matter what the doctors in the universities may say - but it's likely just gossip, poor lad."

"Oh ... why do people think so?"

Father Calum stretched his legs out before him and looked thoughtful. "Govan told me, this morning, that you had asked him how he came to be with me."

"I thought he didn't understand me, when I asked him that!"

"He's understanding a fair bit now. But it's much harder to shape the words to his thoughts. I daresay you've noticed this yourself, in Latin or Greek. Well, he said he didn't care if I told you his story. And that says a great deal, for he doesn't like folk talking about him."

"Nevin said Govan had lived in Dundee for quite a while."

"Yes, but he was not born there. Now, his father, Syme Shaw, came of a seagoing family in Dundee, but he himself was apprenticed to a potter. His father was drowned and so were his three brothers, so that the family was spoken of as cursed. Syme cared little for that - he was a solitary fellow and had no use for gossip. He married his master's daughter Bess and so inherited the pottery when the old man died. They had a son two years after the marriage, a sturdy lad named Ian, and all seemed well with the household." Father Calum paused, his eyes on Hugh, and helped him settle his legs more comfortably before continuing the tale.

"Syme used to go up into the hills to search the stream valleys for fine clay every few months. He did not need to do so - his pottery was doing well, folk bought his wares eagerly - but he had a genius for finding the best clay, and he enjoyed the solitude, I imagine. One day when Ian was rising nine years old, Syme went off again - and did not come home.

"Of course Bess had men search the hills, but it was hopeless. Nearly a week later, though, a shepherd near Kirriemuir heard a small child wailing. He found a wee shieling hut with a man and a woman dead of wounds, as though from a knife, and a little red-haired lad sobbing. The priest of the church in Kirriemuir was summoned and recognized the woman: she had brought her babe to be baptized two years before, and had given the father's name as Syme Shaw, and the child's name as Govan Shaw. So news came to Dundee eventually, and Bess Shaw knew her husband was dead, and that he had been unfaithful, and that he had fathered another son."

Hugh shifted his head on the makeshift pillow of pine needles piled up beneath the blanket. "So Govan's father and mother were murdered?"

"They might have been, and the child asleep at the time," said Father Calum. "Govan could never say - he was not even three years old. But the strangest bit, perhaps, is that no one had ever seen the mother before she brought the child into Kirriemuir. They say she was also red-haired, and her name in the church registry was given as Fingula, which is an old name from Ireland.

"The whole thing was a tragedy and shock and a scandal, and perhaps it drove Bess wee bit mad. The townsfolk wondered when she insisted on taking her husband's bastard into her household. She said the child was the last she had of her husband, and she was not giving him up to be raised by strangers. But whenever she got into a temper, she beat him, and he was always short of food and clothing. Her own son she doted on, but even that went wrong: she started to address him as she had her husband and sweetheart, and people shuddered when they spoke of her and her children." The priest's face was shining with sweat; he paused to wipe his face on his sleeve before going on.

"So - Ian had been his father's apprentice in the pottery, and one of the other potters in Dundee kindly took him on. But he soon began to fear for his brother's life at their mother's hands, and by the time he would have been a journeyman potter and earning a wage, he left his master and tried to eke out a living making pots and cups and plates at his father's old place. He had come to love his little brother, and indeed, all say he was a tender-hearted young man. Bess took in laundry sometimes, but mostly she drank, and hid in her chamber. Govan says that sometimes she came out to try to cook and became angry when she dropped dishes or burnt the meal, and then she'd throw summat at him or beat him with whatever came to hand."

"None of the townsfolk tried to help?"

"Well, now, it was her own house, and she a widow who had given her husband's bastard a roof over his head. Sometimes it's easier for folk to make a pretense of knowing less than they truly do about such events. I think you've found that so yourself, have you not?"

"Yes," Hugh whispered, cold in the pit of his stomach despite the heat.

"So it was for Govan as well. There came a day when it had been raining, and he had been sent to the market to buy fish. Before he could finish his errand, some wild lads knocked him down and stole the few pennies he had. He came home with no money and no fish, tracking his muddy feet onto the kitchen floor, and his stepmother flew into a blind rage. She had porridge on the fire, and she seized the ladle and scooped up the boiling stuff and flung the ladleful at Govan, hitting him on the cheek, there -" Father Calum tapped his own face. "Ian heard his brother's screams and came in from the pottery to find the lad cowering in the corner with his hands over his face and his mother about to dash the whole potful of boiling porridge over him.

"Ian struggled with his mother for the pot, and got it away from her, and then he hit her such a blow that she fell hard against the wall, and her neck was broken. And so Ian had killed his mother because she meant to murder his half-brother. He left the house that day, and no one has seen him since." Father Calum shook his head.

"No one was accusing Govan of his stepmother's murder. How could such a scrawny child kill a grown woman - and he with the blistering burn on his face, and the porridge spattered over the floor, and Ian nowhere to be found. But folk remembered, again, the rumors of the curse on the family, and the tale of his real mother, and soon he was regarded as an unchancy creature of _sidhe_ blood. The potter who had employed his brother kept him until his burn was healed, but when the man tried to get the price of the house and pottery turned over to him for the boy's upkeep, Bess' cousins from Perth protested. Soon the potter and his wife began to argue about keeping the lad, they having five children of their own. Govan came to fear it would all end as it had in his own household, and he ran off."

"Is that when he came to you?"

Father Calum sighed and shifted his weight on the stool. "Nay, not then. He lived on the docks, in warehouses and alleys, for the next two years. He was taken in by a young rogue who had a band of beggars and thieves there, not one of them older than 20 years, but all hardened lawbreakers already. Govan was useful to them, for he was so small and thin that he could wriggle through the narrowest spaces, and strong for all his size. But he broke with them a year and more ago, for he was getting too tall to play his old role in their schemes, and when they pressed him to violence against a woman, he refused. The leader told him that if he would not join with them, he had better leave the town. So he fled into the hills, north and west.

Hugh frowned. "He'd never hunted or anything of that sort, had he?"

"Nay, not once: he had no notion of how to find food in the wilderness, and no thoughts as to where he wished to go. Some days he was fortunate, and farmwives or shepherds gave him a bit of bread - but just as often, he was driven off, sometimes with stones. As the winter was closing in, I began to notice food disappearing from the kitchen here: a loaf one day, and some apples and cheese the next. Then, on a night of cold and sleet, I went to the chapel to check the shutters, and found a wretched scrap of a young fellow half-asleep, half-fainted on one of the pews. He was shuddering with the cold, yet I had some work to get him to come into the warmth of the kitchen. I think it was only the cold of the weeks that followed that allowed us to become properly acquainted, for he couldn't flee and perforce must learn to trust me.

"By the time spring came on, we were good friends, and he met my nearest neighbors. At first he and young Rob Lindsay were like two young dogs, suspicious of each other and looking for an excuse for a scrap, but they learned to like each other well enough to get along by Eastertide. Rob took him out with the sheep and taught him the way of the shepherd. He learned very quickly and well, so that Rob's father let him keep Rùnag - she was the runt of that spring's litter of pups. And you know the rest of the story well enough." The priest smiled faintly, his eyes warm.

"It's a strange and sad tale," said Hugh.

"That it is ... my faith, is that thunder?"

Hugh looked at the sky, dismayed. He had been so intent on the story that he had not noticed the dramatic darkening of the sky to the west. Then, as the rumbling of the thunder faded, they heard the pounding of bare feet, rushing toward them. Govan came running down the northern slope of the little dale, Rùnag chasing at his heels. There was no sign of Father Calum's little flock of sheep.

The boy thudded to a halt at Hugh's feet, clad only in his belted linen shirt, and that peeled down off his shoulders so that he was bare to the waist. Hugh saw that he was barely winded, although his tanned skin was gleaming with sweat, and strands of hair had escaped the leather cord that he'd used to tie it back at the nape of his neck.

"Where are our sheep?" asked Father Calum, sternly, in English.

"Rob - with his. More close to his ... ."

"You were closer to his sheepfold, so you left the sheep with him and his flock?"

Govan nodded. "So, to carry Hugh in."

Father Calum sighed, and then they all started as lightning flashed, followed closely by a sharper crack of thunder.

"I'd best get these books and things in first. Govan, fetch that hurdle."

Father Calum bustled off with his little desk and the new volumes. Govan dragged out the sheep hurdle that they'd been using as a stretcher and laid it beside Hugh, then knelt and eased Hugh's head and shoulders up onto his own lap, ready to shift him over when Father Calum came back to manage Hugh's legs. In the weird storm light, from the corner of his eye, Hugh could see an expanse of soft, tanned skin stretched thinly over hard muscle, and the outlines of Govan's ribs above, and feel the boy's hard, wiry strength supporting him. He could see a trickle of sweat running down, and smell it, salt and musk. He felt suddenly light-headed, and yet not ill - not in the least. He turned his head so that his cheek rested against Govan's skin, and his breath blew across the boy's belly. Govan made a surprised little sound, and then he brushed the fingers of one hand through Hugh's increasingly shaggy hair. The next moment, Rùnag stuck her nose between them, and they both started to laugh.

Father Calum came back around the corner and looked at them strangely for a moment, then shrugged and stooped to grasp Hugh's ankles. They managed to get through the kitchen door just as the first drops started to fall.

Govan was washing dishes in the tiny scullery. Hugh was drying them. The feeling of being well enough to do so made even such a mundane chore enjoyable. The sound of voices came faintly through the open windows along with the cool September evening air: Father Calum, Nevin Lindsay's elder brother Dugal, and a very nervous fellow from York named James Goodrick, who had been staying with them for the past week.

"The big bed now we get," said Govan, cheerfully.

"Yes, it will be good have our own bed back again."

"Sleep not good on the pallet, you did."

"No, I didn't sleep so well on the pallet. Especially with Rùnag trying to crawl between us. But still, l slept better there than I did even in the big bed last month."

They heard the sound of hoofbeats moving off, then, and the kitchen door opened and closed. Father Calum appeared in the scullery doorway a moment later.

"You've been standing long enough now, Hugh. Come away to my chamber - I need to talk to you."

He vanished. Govan carefully lowered the pot he'd been scrubbing down to the drainboard, as though it were glass, and stared at Hugh. "What is?"

Hugh put the plate he'd been drying onto its shelf and hung up the dishtowel. Govan's worry was contagious. "I don't know. It can't be as bad as it sounded."

Govan dropped the dishrag into the basin and turned to squeeze Hugh's shoulders with both hands. The expression on his face was probably meant to be encouraging. Hugh was startled to realize that those ringed blue eyes were almost level with his own. The boy must have grown an inch in the six weeks past.

"Father is good. No trouble at you, sure," said Govan, earnestly.

"I won't know truly until I speak with him," Hugh gently pried the wet fingers from his borrowed shirt. "You're getting me all damp. I must go."

As he walked through the kitchen and out into the little hallway that let onto the two bedchambers and the chapel vestry, Hugh felt an uncomfortable flutter in his belly. Perhaps, as Calum said, he had been standing too long. A person never considered that the belly was involved in standing until something like this happened.

Calum's room was the smaller of the two chambers, a plain space with a narrow bed, a small clothes chest, a table holding his writing desk and books, and a tall stool as a seat. It was typical of him that the larger, more comfortable bedchamber was given to guests, "There you are, lad. Sit. Take the stool - 't will be easier than getting down and up from the bed."

Hugh eased himself onto the stool. Father Calum sat on the bed, his face grave. "Master Goodrick should be away on the morning tide, to France. I'm hoping he'll be wiser in his pamphlet-writing now, or even cease altogether. To my mind, there's no sin in trying to fathom the workings of what God has created, but that's not what those who command the souls of England think. Hugh, I believe you should take much the same journey one month hence. Talk of the killing at Pitcullen has not died away entirely. 't would be better for you to leave here before winter closes in. There are good folk there who will make it appear as though you came to France straight away after your sister was taken, were injured after you came ashore, and have been nursed there since. The trail here will grow cold. In a few years, if you wish, you should be able to return."

Hugh hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor. If he used reason, he knew that the priest was correct. But he realized now how much he had come to love this small bit of the world, with its calm daily rhythms of prayer and housework and lessons, the pleasing companionship of Father Calum and Govan, and the deep sense of peace that flowed from the priest himself. And Govan ... he was still not sure what the boy saw in him. The lad was off every morning with the sheep, but he would be back in late afternoon, often bringing with him some token of the world beyond the chapel glen: a kestrel's feather, a striped pebble, a sprig of broom. They would teach each other the words in English and in Gaelic for whatever it was, and Govan would try to widen his English by attempting to describe where he'd found the object, or spinning a tale of some slight adventure he'd had in finding it, or sometimes even repeating a bit of history about it: folk wisdom, superstitions, legends. It would be difficult for him to form the words and for Hugh to be as patient he ought to be: Govan was no scholar and would often attempt to break the lesson off with shameless pratfalls that would do a court fool proudly. But somehow the total of the many small moments, from the first days when Govan calmly helped a shamefaced, bed-bound Hugh deal with his body's needs, to this last week, when Hugh had at last been able to help him with the domestic tasks of their little household, had become a warm spot in Hugh's chilled soul.

"I ... you are wise, Father. But I don't wish to leave."

"I know you don't hold your own life in high regard. But that is not all that is at stake. You have seen some of what I am about here. It is all dependent on the hidden nature of this place: that this seems nought but a country chapel maintained by a slightly foolish priest who tends to the shepherd and the farmer and the hunter. I don't think you wish to chance exposing my work, and risking the lives of those I serve, as well as my own scrawny neck. And I think too, that you would not wish to have Govan see you dragged off as a prisoner."

Hugh found he was clutching at his gut as though it had been laid open once more. "That ... that was cruel. Why did you have to say such a thing?"

"There come times when one must be cruel to prevent worse cruelty from following. There is a season for everything, Hugh, and the season is coming for you to leave this place. For your own good, and for that of all of us. If it is any comfort, I wish it wasn't so, and Govan will be miserable to lose his companion. But there's no help for it. This is what we must bear."

"I suppose ... I deserve no better," said Hugh, his eyes on the floor again.

He was shocked to hear Father Calum chuckle gently. "Because being sent abroad to live in a wealthy man's home, and have your own chamber with a featherbed, and learn from his pet philosophers and the other great ones who visit him - is a terrible punishment indeed."

"But ... !"

"Listen to me now, Hugh. Suppose your despicable cousin had never visited, and your sister had stayed safe at home, awaiting a suitable marriage. Suppose your uncle had woken to the fact that a mind like yours should not be wasted in a dank corner of the country, and you had been sent to Oxford or Cambridge or London, or even abroad. You would have been away this same number of years, and just as alone. Would that have been so terrible?"

"I'm not the same boy I was then!"

"No, you aren't. For one thing, I believe truly you are born anew, since that black night when I thought for certain you had died. But that doesn't mean you must spend another 19 years to become old enough to go out into the world. Take heart, Hugh. Perhaps this is exile, but it's not prison."

Hugh shook his head, although he knew it was no use. Father Calum raised his eyebrows and nodded once, firmly.

"Enough. It won't be for weeks yet. Go think on it, in the chapel, and when you've thought enough for the night, say your prayers. Go on, now."

Hugh dragged himself out of the room, through the hall and the vestry and into the chapel. Two tapers still flickered on the lectern, and the faintest remnants of daylight still lit the clearest parts of the two stained glass panels in the windows at the back of the sanctuary proper, showing him the Holy Mother smiling kindly down on the one side, the Child in her arms, and St. Martin sharing his cloak with the beggar on the other. Hugh slid into the pew at the front where he'd attended service with Govan since he was well enough to walk again, and then shifted himself cautiously onto his knees on the battered leather hassock there, bowing his head on his hands at the rail. It seemed to him that he and his troubles were very small in the scheme of things, but the thought brought him no comfort.

He had no notion of how long he had knelt there when he suddenly felt the familiar warmth of another person beside him. Govan's hair, no longer tied back, hid his face, but Hugh could see how his fingers dug into the backs of his clasped hands. "He told you, then," Hugh whispered.

"_Ist!_ I need pray also."

Hugh leaned against him, just a little. After a few moments, he heard Govan mutter " ... _agus a' glòir, gu siorraidh. Amen._" The boy crossed himself and then shifted up and back to sit on the pew properly. Hugh started to join him but was so stiff that he sagged back against the railing. Govan slid an arm around him and eased him into the seat.

"Thank you," said Hugh quietly. "It's getting cold in here." Govan settled against him more firmly.

"Father said," he whispered. "_I_ said, I go too. I said, if he say no - I run off." His face was impish in the dim light.

"What ... what did he say to that?"

"He said, 'Govan, you said no vow to stay. You stay here because you want. Go if you must.'" Govan looked very pleased with himself. Hugh was surprised to feel a rush of uneasiness. He thought of what Father Calum had told him of Govan's last years in Dundee. If Govan left Father Calum's tutelage and the wholesome, plain life here in the hills, it would be Hugh's responsibility to keep him from such things.

"Govan, _why_ do you care for me? How can you want to go with me? I'm a terrible man! I murdered nearly 30 people!"

It came out horridly loud. Govan looked shocked, and then, glancing at the altar, uneasy. He slid from the pew, pulling Hugh with him. "Come you away out," he whispered.

They crept out together through the nave between the rows of pews. Govan stopped just before the main door and rummaged in the corner, coming up with an ancient and ragged plaid that someone must have left behind on a warm day. They went on out to the soft duff under the pines. Govan eased Hugh down and wrapped the plaid around his shoulders, then whistled softly between his teeth. Rùnag came running from the direction of the kitchen door, and Govan made her settle on Hugh's far side, so that he was pressed between them. Govan wrapped an arm around Hugh's shoulders for good measure. Hugh sighed.

"You take such care of me. Why? I don't deserve it. You're happy here. You shouldn't go abroad with me. "

Govan kicked gently at the pine needles with one foot, digging a little hollow. "Hugh ... when you come that night, and I find you up there - all blood - I know you. Never before I seen you - but I know you."

"Father Calum said something about that. Govan ... I felt like I knew you too. But that makes no sense. The pain must have made me imagine it."

Govan thumped his fist gently on Hugh's shoulder. "No imagine. Truth. Listen. Three nights after, and Father Calum said you go die. He to pray go - with you, let me stay. I go to sleep, your hand with mine. Then we come to another place. And then I give you ... _leigheas_."

Hugh shook his head, frustrated by the lack of common language, but a strange feeling was stirring, a memory almost entirely forgotten in the weeks of pain. "Try again - what did you give me?"

"A drink. From a black bottle, I spill it into a tall cup of ... _a mhairg!_ Hugh, stuff like the church window. How is it said?"

Hugh felt a strange stillness inside. "A tall cup of glass."

"Yes! That - I bring it to you. A drink for you to rest and become better. You drink it and go to sleep ."

"You dreamed that you gave me ... ."

"Hugh!" Govan thumped him again, harder. "You go to sleep, and then you wake, and you _are_ better. No dream! Father Calum - he said 'Look at that!' Right?"

Hugh stared out into the quiet night, another night in his mind's eye. The strange room. The man named Gojyo, who looked like Govan grown to be Hugh's own age. The bitter drink, the taste of which was still in his mouth when he woke the next day. "Things like that don't happen to real people."

Govan wound his fingers in Hugh's hair and tugged sharply.

"Ow! Stop that!"

"Feel real to me, Hugh. You also?"

"You little b... beast!"

Govan snickered. "Real! I go to France with you. No one stop me."

"You shouldn't! You should stay with Father Calum. He can take much better care of you!"

"I be sixteen years in two months. Not a bairn. I take care of _you_."

"Govan - !"

Govan clamped one hand over Hugh's mouth. Rùnag helpfully jumped up and started licking what she could of his face.

"_Ist!_ No more. Listen. Hugh, you sinner?"

Hugh pried Govan's fingers away from his mouth. "Yes, damn you!" He pushed the dog away.

"Rùnag, _shios!_ Now - sinner know what God think?"

Hugh made a rude, exasperated sound and wiped his face on his sleeve. "Probably not!"

"But Father Calum know. Right?"

"Maybe." But Hugh knew that his voice lacked conviction. Father Calum probably came as close to knowing that as any man living.

"So - he say you new now, and no sinner now. Fine, that! So - I care for you, and I go with you when you go. There - end!"

"Don't think yourself so clever. The way you're arguing, if I'm not a sinner, then I can know God's thoughts."

"But still - not a sinner! So I go with you."

Hugh sighed and let his head rest on Govan's shoulder. "It's still a terrible idea. But fine, you can go with me."

A brilliant sunset was painting the sky behind them, telling of the rainy day just past and the good weather to come. The five of them - Father Calum, Govan, Hugh, and Nevin and Dugal Lindsay- were on the wooded banks of a small inlet on the coast, where a brook flowed into the sea. They were waiting for the tide to turn, so that Govan and Hugh could be taken out to the ship waiting just off the coast to take them to France. The little boat, tied to a tree stump, rocked gently at the end of her mooring line, already loaded with their scanty baggage. Hugh drew a deep breath, relishing the fact that it hardly hurt at all to do so, and listened attentively as Father Calum dispensed last-minute advice about their journey.

"Now, remember, the Count has some wild young men in his household, and they'll no doubt be at you to go to Paris with them. But not now - not this time. Work on your French, the both of you, and anything else he sets you to."

Govan was almost unrecognizable in the new breeches, jerkin, and hose that had showed up a week ago, save for his flaming hair - and even that was tied back neatly. He was wild with excitement at the idea of traveling with Hugh. "How many until the tide goes?"

"'How long until the tide goes out,'" corrected Hugh, automatically. Nevin and Dugal chuckled. Govan scowled at them. "_Teirmeasg ... ._ No - damn to you, whore-sons!"

There was a moment's stunned silence. Then both brothers burst out laughing. Father Calum looked startled, "Hugh, what have you been teaching him?"

"I? I'd never ... !"

Dugal stopped laughing and looked thoughtfully at his younger brother, who was still chortling. Then he cuffed Nevin across the head. "That's a fine thing to be teaching the priest's lad, you wicked fellow!"

Govan, red in the face, was only slightly pacified by his new teacher's punishment. "Nevin Lindsay, you be a -"

Hugh grabbed his shoulders and swung him around. "Govan, you can't say things like that! We're going to be serving a gentleman!"

Father Calum nodded. "Govan, Hugh speaks wisely. Don't make me keep you here, while he sails to France."

At this, Govan appeared positively stricken. He clutched one of Hugh's arms and looked pleadingly at the priest. Father Calum looked gravely back at him.

"Now, Father, it was Nevin's fault," said Dugal, kindly. "Lad, the tide will turn soon enough, and I'll wager you'll be tired of boats and ships before three days are out. Stretch your legs while you still can."

Father Calum eyed the poor wretch a moment longer before giving him a gentle smile. "Even so. Govan, run over and look across the mouth of the burn, to make sure no one is about. Quietly, now, and quickly."

Govan nodded and ran off, lithe and agile. Hugh turned to watch him go, wondering how he was going to deal with their new life, where he couldn't spend half the day running wild in the hills. He turned back to find the others watching him thoughtfully.

"This a great responsibility, Hugh," said Father Calum. "He has a good heart, but he is impulsive."

"I know. It's going to be hard for him to behave. But I'm glad he's coming with me."

"Well, then. It's to be hoped you can keep each other out of trouble."

"Halloo-oo!"

Govan was waving frantically to them from the shore where brook met sea, and pointing upstream. He called back something in Gaelic, then looked back at the burn himself and kicked off his new leather brogues.

"He said something about ... a babe?" said Dugal, puzzled.

Govan disappeared from sight, apparently heading for the water. Hugh frowned. "He can't swim!"

The brothers looked at each other, then turned and raced toward the spot where Govan had disappeared. Hugh started after them, but Calum grabbed his shoulder. "Slowly. You shouldn't run that distance yet. They'll get him out, if he's come to grief."

It was hard to pace himself. He heard shouts in Gaelic. The Lindsays were telling Govan to be careful, as far as he could understand it. As Hugh and Calum came up, they heard the wail of a baby, or maybe a very small child.

Govan, damp halfway up his thighs, was carefully pulling a small coracle woven of reeds to shore. Dugal grabbed the other end of it when it came into reach, and between them they hoisted it out and set it firmly on dry land. Govan crouched down, murmuring in the tone he used on lambs and sheepdog puppies, and pulled out a baby.

Hugh had little knowledge of children this young, although he'd taught a number of his cousins their letters and numbers once they were old enough for schooling. The child did not look old enough to walk or talk, but it had a thick head of golden hair. It was wailing in short, angry bursts that ended as Govan cradled it close to his chest. Nevin grinned: "There's a bonnie wee thing!"

His older brother frowned. "Well, someone wasn't pleased with him, and he not as much as a year old. I wonder whose he is?"

Govan carried the babe up the slope to Father Calum. As he grew near, Hugh could see that the child had extraordinary eyes, large and blue-violet. Its expression was sulky, but as it noticed Calum, the babe's eyes grew even wider and a shadow of a smile appeared. Father Calum held out his arms, and Govan surrendered his charge.

"There now," said the priest, fondly. "You're a braw little lad, are you not?"

"How do you know it's a boy, Father?"

"Oh, perhaps he's not. But I think I'm right. He's fairly dry, so I'll not strip him down in this chill to see." The infant was gazing at Calum's face with an expression that looked like rapture to Hugh. Govan grinned.

"Och, the bairn's aye foolish for you, Father." He reached out to pat the child's cheek, and the babe turned to look at him crossly, then spit up extravagantly over the sleeve of Govan's new coat. Govan snatched his hand away just the least bit too late.

"Ah, you wee cur! You shitty-arsed -"

Dugal clapped one hand over his mouth, and he and Nevin grabbed the lad by his arms and hauled him off to the shore again, where they sponged off his coat.

"Someone must have felt they couldn't raise him," murmured Father Calum, rocking the child. "I cannot condone what was done - he might have drowned. But sometimes even that fate must seem kinder ... you recall Govan's tale."

Hugh shuddered and nodded. "Will you seek his parents?"

"Aye. But I daresay they'll not be found."

"And then what?"

"Well, I've a fancy to raise him myself. With you lads gone, I have the room, after all. And already Sorcha and Rob will be helping with the sheep and the housekeeping. It should be no hardship."

Hugh couldn't imagine why the priest would want to deal with a squalling infant, but his own life was evidence of the man's strength in nurturing and nursing. Still, he found himself shaking his head. Calum chuckled at him. "You'll keep me young, won't you, _mo chridhe_?" he said to the babe.

"_Seall!_"

It was Nevin, pointing past the mouth of the burn to the estuary. "See the slack water there - we need to get the lads into the boat!"

Dugal was already running, and Govan after him, his shoes in his hands. "Shouldn't Govan change to dry clothes?" asked Hugh. "He's wet to the skin."

"No time, and he's aye tough enough for it," said Nevin. "What d' you think he used to do, on a rainy day out wi' the sheep in the winter? He was wetter than this, I can tell you, and in worse weather."

"That's the truth," said Father Calum. "No need to worry for him, Hugh. You two must be off, now."

They followed the others to the boat. Govan was already sitting on the middle of the thwart near the stern, and the rope had been untied and stowed. "Look to what you're at, young Hugh," said Dugal. "You need to sit right up against the lad, to keep the boat trimmed."

Hugh climbed in cautiously. The boat swayed and dipped alarmingly, despite his care and the brothers' hold on it, but he managed to get seated against Govan, who moved away from the center at just the right moment. "That's the lad," said Dugal, approvingly. He took his place at the oars, and Nevin climbed into the small space behind the prow, to watch out and direct his brother.

"Fare ye well, lads!" called Father Calum. "Write me, Hugh, as soon as you can!"

He turned away, and Dugal's oars swept out and bit into the water. The boat lurched away from the shore, then glided as Dugal found his stroke. For a few moments, Hugh huddled against Govan, feeling cut adrift himself. Govan shivered against him.

"Govan, are you chilled?"

He shook his head.

"Seasick, then?"

Govan looked at him, puzzled. "'Seasick' is ... ?"

Hugh mimed vomiting over the side. Perhaps he was a little too vivid in his acting, because now Govan _did_ look a bit ill. "No!" he said, stubbornly.

Hugh put an arm around his shoulders. Dugal grinned at them. Govan turned to look behind, and Hugh did the same: Father Calum was already barely visible against the darkening trees. Govan sighed and turned back. "The wee kirk - all empty now. The bairn is a good for him - true? And for Rùnag."

"Yes, I'm sure it will be," agreed Hugh, not bothering to correct him, or speculate about the child's parents being found.

Nevin looked at them over his shoulder and chuckled. "It's a fine time you'll be having getting yourselves along in France, with the two of you knowing no more than ten words of French between you, and this one with his English in bits and patches."

To Hugh's surprise, Govan didn't flare up, but simply turned to look his friend in the eyes for a long moment. Hugh remembered that gaze, that kind soul looking at him on the stony slope above the chapel, then again in the dark night when he found himself _somewhere else_, and once more as he knelt desolate in the chapel, and how he had been given exactly what he needed each time. He tightened his grip around Govan's bony shoulders.

"Oh, I don't know about that. We understand each other pretty well, you know."

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